


Love in a Distant Time

by ghuune



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: 2013 Haiti, Cockles, Dom!Jensen, Fluff, M/M, Phone Sex, Porn, Skype Sex, dom!Jensen feels, tinhat!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 09:48:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6001510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghuune/pseuds/ghuune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha's in Jacmel, Haiti, finishing the orphanage in the summer of 2013. Jensen is home, and lonely. Character-driven porn with plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love in a Distant Time

**Author's Note:**

> So. This stretched my boundaries. I have never Skyped. Not even regular old Call Grandma Skype, so any inaccuracies are down to that. I'm following Misha's mantra: "I suck and I love to fail." 
> 
> AKA, "I'm gonna write phone sex with painful enthusiasm and no skill at all, the way Misha dances with Jensen."

I. JUNE 13th, 2013: JACMEL, HAITI  
*Txt me when u land*

*Miss u*  
*No dying*

The hotel in Jacmel had WiFi, pools, and air conditioning, which surprised some of the volunteers, who'd apparently expected tarps and latrines. When open warfare very nearly broke out over someone's use of the phrase “third world country,” Misha decided Tumblrites were a breed apart. Half of them lived in such a self-imposed police state they could hardly breathe without apologizing for their oxygen-exchange privilege; the other half self-identified as “random,” “awkward,” and/or “off their Ritalin.” 

The two sides drafted a bipartisan political system and began to engage in espionage with breathtaking speed. Government: just add young people. What he wanted to know was, where did they find the energy? It was hot—-even for Haiti; even _the Haitians_ were complaining—-and so humid, the minions wailed about their frizzy hair and got distracted by other people's damp shirts. They spent all day mixing concrete and cleaning grit off of tiles and still had time to wage guerilla wars comprised entirely of other people's secrets.

All in all, this had been a long day. Misha's cell didn't get any bars on-site, and he'd only had time to dash off a quick “I landed” to everyone at home before he'd had put out a dozen conflagrations, both interpersonal and acts of God. 

As he stripped off his sweaty, disgusting clothes, his phone made its first date with the hotel's Wi-Fi.

*Did you actually die?*  
*Nothin on the news*  
*HAHA Ur death didn't even make the news*

*U must be dead since u haven't texted me back*  
*And if u aren't, Ill take care of that*

Just as Misha was about to respond, his message center updated again with a text from Danneel:

*call this THING and DEAL WITH HIM i needto bREATHE*

*It's only what you deserve* he texted her back. Relenting, he added, *Tell him to hold his octopuses. I'll call him as soon as I shower.*

*FUCKING SHOWER FAST* came her immediate response. *ALREADY GOT ONE BIG SOBBY BABY AND I DON'T MEAN JJ*

\-- Misha reclined on his bed in a pair of boxers and an undershirt, a glass of rum on the night table beside him. The rum had more molasses in its topnote than he generally favored, but it was compliments of the hotel and he was not about to turn down free booze.

Girl-laughter and stomping in the halls. The more adventurous volunteers, with Colin and Jason as chaperones, were off to see what entertainment Port Jacmel had to offer. Regardless of the country, he'd always managed to find the fun, but that was a talent---and a lack of regard for personal safety---that he, perhaps, should not wish upon others.

He hoped they'd see the conditions people lived in outside the resort area without letting it drag them down. He'd told them a story this afternoon which he hoped would prepare them. Last year, he'd stumbled across a group of kids. The quake had left them nothing to play with, but they played hard anyway, some game of their own invention, happy together; he'd never seen such happy children. The moral of the story was, even though there were problems everywhere, it wasn't stupid and it wasn't selfish to seek out happiness. Happiness was, in and of itself, service: you stayed well so you had the strength to help others.

He knew he should go with them, guide them, thank them for their hard work, but no: not today. This was his time. No children, no minions, no shooting schedule, and no active projects except this one. Misha sipped his rum and let it spread its warmth through his body. He couldn't help anyone if he burned out. He was doing exactly as he should right now. 

His self-talk didn't quite silence the deep-down nag calling him an idle bum and a terrible host whose charity efforts were doing more harm than good, but---

FUCK. It wasn't just Jensen who needed to talk. He really needed to hear Jen's voice. 

That was... not so good; he was allergic to codependence, so what was this all the sudden? Maybe Jen was rubbing off on him. Or maybe it was the fact he hadn't been with him in the flesh since Rome, over a month ago. Between Jen's new baby and his trip to Haiti, they'd both been booked.

The memory of Rome speeded his heart. Misha licked his lips and grinned. Better. Horny was always better than needy. 

*Just a reminder: you have only yourself to blame for what's about to happen* he texted Jen, and then he called him. 

“What's about to happen?” Jensen asked right away.

“Get yourself somewhere useful,” Misha said, because in the background he heard JJ fussing and Danneel saying, “Is that Misha? Go upstairs.”

“And tell your wife I love her.”

Jensen moved the phone away from his mouth. “He says he hates your guts.”

“Same to that slut,” Danneel shot back cheerfully. 

As Jen climbed the stairs, he said, “You took your damn time calling me.”

“Sorry, only building an orphanage here. International rates will knock your cock off on roam. Reasons.”

“Sorry, nothin'. I'm a new dad, I haven't slept right in weeks, I've been sitting around thinking all parasites and earthquakes.... Don't _do_ that to me, Misha.”

They needed to change the subject. Once Jen started in with the anxious-paranoid fantasies, there was no stopping that train without touching him. So Misha asked, “How's the baby?” 

“Tubby. Cute. She craps liquid. Hey, Mish, when does a baby start forming logs?”

“Liquid?” He put on a concerned tone. “They're not supposed to do that. Have you taken her to the doctor?” 

Jensen gasped. Misha grinned even as he felt a little cruel, remembering that, “Holy shit, I'm going to kill this tiny thing through sheer stupidity” feeling all too well. He said, “Well, whatever it is, she's lived with it so far, so it probably won't be fatal.”

Jen exhaled in relief. “To hell with you, ya dick.” He closed a door behind him with a snick. “All right, I'm somewhere useful.”

“This useful spot, does it have a computer?” Misha asked, reaching for his laptop. 

“It might,” he said. “Hey. Speaking of computers. What's that thing you're doing with your kid?”

“Investing in the future support of some therapist's family, I'd like to think. What, specifically, are you talking about?”

“Tho-those--”Jen stammered through laughter, “--cooking shows?”

Oh, he meant “Cooking Fast and Fresh with West.” What had begun as a clever way to answer his parents' demands for footage of their grandson quickly turned into screwing around for its own sake, the way things did. 

“If you can call it cooking. It's more amateur chemical warfare with stoves,” he said, setting them both off. 

Eventually, Misha took a few deep breaths and blotted his eyes with the back of his hand. For God's sakes, they were pathetic. Only been talking for a few minutes, and they already had each other crying. 

“Yeah, this chemical warfare. You let him pick all the ingredients and do all the work, and then you actually eat it? And then you post it!”

“Well, yeah, Vicki won't go near it, so I try. I mean, I don't want West to grow up with a complex about his cooking. It's not always entirely successful, I admit. Not really a project I'd recommend trying with JJ.”

“It'll be a few years before she can do anything but crap the sauce.”

“Eeewww. Dammit, Jen—-how the hell am I supposed to transition from that to the reason I needed to get you alone?”

“You know I like to make that difficult.” Jensen's voice dropped and darkened as he added, “You know I don't need any transition at all.”

Misha grunted, and just like that, the mood changed. They'd laughed, enjoyed each other; the warmth in their voices had crossed a thousand miles, but now? 

“I need to see you, not just hear you,” he said. “Hence the computer question.”

“Yeah,” and that choked affirmation had a powerful effect on Misha. He let out a ridiculous little sound that set him sneering at himself even as he opened up the laptop and went through the rigamarole required to set up a Skype connection. 

When he appeared on the screen, Jensen blinked and said, “You just shower? All dewy. Bet you smell good.” Sadness and loneliness flashed like strobe lights on his expressive face. 

“And you, all dirty.”

“Yeah, I stink,” Jen said. “You don't even wanna know what I've been through today. Just be glad this is Skype and not the real deal, that's all I'm saying.”

“I'll never be happier with Skype than with you,” Misha said, with feeling, and the sadness in Jensen's eyes spoke of his total agreement. 

Then he shook it off, said, “Hang on,” and started adjusting a gooseneck lamp on the computer table for optimum lighting.

“God damn it, Diva Dave,” Misha complained, “all we're doing is jacking off.”

“You mean we're gonna shoot,” Jensen deadpanned. “Shoots need lighting.”

Misha laughed hard. 

“And you need to move,” Jen said in his director voice. “You're backlit n I can barely see you. Nice room, though.”

“Yeah, it's a nice place,” Misha said, shifting himself so the meager light from the bedside lamps fell on his face and body more fully. “The minions were shocked.” 

“Yeah? How are the minions?”

“Nope,” Misha said. “Not talking about them right now. No no no, don't put that image in my fucking head.”

“What, they're not invited to the party?”

Misha felt a flash of anger that he beat back. Jen either didn't understand how much he needed this to be about them right now, or, more likely, this was Jensen's underhanded revenge for not calling him sooner. 

He stared into Jensen's eyes through the computer screen, holding him within his gaze; after a few moments, those green eyes widened, his face softened, and his freckled cheeks, perfectly lit by the gooseneck, blushed shining pink.

Misha kept his expression completely serious. There were two expressions of his against which Jensen had no defense: one was when he laughed so hard his nose scrunched, and this was the other. This was also, not coincidentally, his go-to face for Cas. It was one of the few ways he could make Jensen's life suck a little harder when they shot scenes together.

It kind of sucked for him, too, though, staring so steadily at Jensen's lush mouth as he licked it nervously, the slight arch to his long jaw, every line of him graceful and balanced, as though some nefarious government breeding program had worked for a hundred years to produce a girl who'd win every pageant in the world, and when they'd fucked up and got a male instead, made him an actor. 

“All right, all right, blink, man. I got the message,” Jensen said. “Ixnay on the inions-may.”

“The onions-mayo, too,” Misha said, because he couldn't help himself, and the tension dissolved as they both broke up again. 

After they'd calmed down, Jensen put on some music, no group Misha recognized. Blues fusion. He could deal with that. Jen had tried to use country as a soundtrack exactly once and that session never got off the ground, because Misha couldn't stop quoting “Deliverance.”

He finished his rum and licked the last trace of alcohol off his lower lip. Jensen watched him, his eyes dark, his fingers tapping softly against his mouth. Misha sucked his lower lip, bit it until it stung, scraped it with his teeth until it swelled, flush with blood. 

“Need to kiss you as soon as possible,” Jensen said, his hand dropping out of frame and his eyes fluttering shut as he liked whatever he was doing to himself. 

Misha rolled his eyes. “Hey, Spielberg, all your action's out of frame. Fix your camera situation.”

Jensen grunted and banged around on the other end of the connection, showing Misha confused flashes of the ceiling and a homey-looking print of a cottage hanging on the wall before settling down again. Jensen sat in a rolling computer chair with his legs apart, wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and nothing else. 

He'd pitched a tent that could sleep a family of three. 

All for dumb little Dmitri biting his lower lip, well, well. Misha felt the familiar surge of power as he recognized, yet again, just how much Jensen wanted him. This was a very far cry from the life he'd once imagined he'd lead, but not an unwelcome one. Not at all.

“I like that. I like that a whole helluva lot,” he said.

“Yeah? I can tell,” Jensen said, raising cocky eyebrows. He rolled his palm over the head of his cock through the fabric of his pants, gripped the shaft and stroked it lightly, teasing himself. “Wish you could get your hands on it, don't you?”

Misha snorted softly through his nose, his own palm rubbing circles on himself, worn cloth slipping over stiff hot flesh. “You're right. Hands, plural: I'd need both. Then where would I be?”

“In my mouth,” Jensen said, and Misha cursed as his blood underwent a sudden emergency redirection, pooling heavily in his groin, bringing him to almost painful readiness. 

“You in mine at the same time,” he said roughly. 

“Fuck yes!”

Misha moaned as his body lost cabin pressure, his head lolling back. “You know I won't make it if you keep saying 'fuck.'”

“Felt it. Thrusting into your mouth, you on your knees, staring up at me—-c'mon, Mish, look at me,” because Misha had closed his eyes against the words, the memories, the longing. He opened them, feeling victimized, and there was Jensen's cock, naked and shining over the waistband of his sweats, five inches of shaft and glistening head with more straining against the elastic and his balls lovingly outlined by clinging fabric. The bottle of lube made a rude noise when Jensen greased his fist. With his other hand, he pulled the pants down and over the curve of his ass, popping his hips to work them off, the head of his cock peeping out through his tight grip as he---

“Oh, fuck me,” Misha gasped.

“Oh, I mean to. First chance I get.” Jen's lips reddened, his eyelids dark and heavy, dropping over his eyes. Misha bit his mouth again, not meaning to tease him this time, just because. 

He pet his neck, trailed down over his collarbone and sternum and back again, wishing it were Jensen's fingers, calloused by his guitar strings; those fingers, strong and just a little rough, hanging onto him, gripping him tight enough to leave marks behind. He told Jen these things, his voice ragged around the edges, fingertips trailing fire over his sensitized skin.

Jen said, “Take those stupid clothes off.”

Naked, Misha returned to the bed and the laptop, and, knowing its position gave Jensen the best possible view, slicked himself up with the K-Y. The hotel's air conditioning was not completely victorious over the extreme heat, and sweat bloomed on his skin as he flushed beneath Jensen's lustful stare. He was not a natural exhibitionist like Jen, who loved watching himself in mirrors or on tape, loved being watched as he fucked; no matter how many times Misha did this, he was always a little embarrassed.

Jensen, who knew this damn well, said, “You look so hot right now, Mish,” the pet name sending a shudder of happy pleasure down his spine. “You get so red and hard for me, I love it.”

“Fucking love your voice,” Misha said. It was low and rough, breathless and road-hauled, and it did things to him as he angled his hips and spread his legs so he could access his hole without laying back, because he needed to see Jensen working himself, his big hands on his big cock, one at the base and the other busy wringing his head.

“Get your finger in your ass.”

“Who made you the boss?” 

“Who called who 'his favorite director?' Just do it. I need it.”

“You are my favorite director,” Misha said, and Jensen twitched, his eyes flaring wide in disbelief. 

“You amaze me,” he said, and Jensen's mouth fell open a little, his hands slowing, because hearing himself be praised was more pleasurable to him than sex.

The slick tips of Misha's three middle fingers described tight circles on the sensitive skin of his hole, sending sparks of sensation down his legs and up his spine. 

“You've got an amazing eye and you care and you're---you're---oh, God,” Misha said, because thinking of all the ways Jensen Ackles was an astounding human being was sending pulses of light all through the center of his body. It felt like flying, like make-believe, that someone like him could be so hard in love with someone like Misha.

Jensen sounded pleased and embarrassed, which took the command out of his tone when he ordered, “Shut up the sappy talk and finger yourself.”

Misha moaned and gasped as he pushed his long middle finger inside, encountering almost no resistance. He found his prostate with no trouble and applied the steady pressure he preferred, singing out at the deep, luscious swell of pleasure, which gathered strength like a tsunami born from some undersea eruption. Jensen answered with a helpless grunt of his own.

“Seeing you, hearing you, so fucking hot,” he said, and Misha didn't object to the curse this time. It was just more fuel. 

He surfaced enough to ask, “What would it take for you to eat me?” 

Jensen was panting. “I swear, man, if you were here now, you could have me any way you wanted. Leaving the damn country to go save some friggin orphans when I need you here, what the hell.”

“I'm coming back to you,” said Misha without thinking, and Jensen doubled over, his mouth distorted, the lips curled back in a snarl that could pass for pain.

“ _Fuck_. Fuck, Mish, that was---” The rest of whatever he was going to say shattered into pieces of half-voiced aspiration as he half-fell off the chair, his hips sawing, disorganized, wrecked. He battered the computer table with his fist, jostling the feed so his image blurred, but Misha stared anyway, because this? This. Jensen wrecked for him, because of him, jetting pretty white cum all over his fist and the chair and those poor sweatpants. He was so here for this.

“Taste that for me,” Misha said, and Jensen's eyes flashed up to meet his, shocked wide but---yeah. He'd do it.

“Damn, Mish,” he said, a lost, soft whisper, “I miss you something awful, man.”

Then he swept a glob of his cum off the table and onto his finger and, holding Misha's eyes, sucked it off, rich lips pursed red around the digit.

Misha cried out, panting harshly. At some point he'd put another finger in his ass and he writhed around the pressure, not really pumping into himself but letting his body's movements carry him along the wave. The tsunami was cresting, powerful enough to frighten him, and through it all was Jensen's eyes holding his, his whispers, “C'mon, baby, cum for me, lemme see it. You got mine. You got all mine, I feel so good now, want to see you... want you here with me...”

And then he said: “Come home to me. Come on home,” and the tsunami crashed ashore, wrecking everything Misha had built that defined him to himself: all the pressure, the kindness, the insomnia and the worry and the crying jags when he felt terrible, but the work wouldn't stop. Guilt, because he didn't do absolutely everything he could. The seed of fear, which stated he was wrong to live in this world, needed to earn his place within it. The drive, drive, drive: to more, be more, feel more. 

All gone, turned to light, a pleasure which verged on pain pouring through him, his spine a conduit, every nerve lit up and singing. Sparks exploded behind his eyes; his breathing hurt his throat.

Jensen was shushing him when he came back to Earth. “Good God, that was loud,” he said, his eyes wild. 

“Mmmm,” Misha said, cum and sweat rapidly cooling on his flushed body, too limp to move.

“Your minions, man. How thick are the walls in that place?”

“The nosy types are still out, and the shut-ins are all listening to music while they blog about their first day in Haiti, entries which now may or may not include some guy screaming his head off.” Misha waved a lazy hand. “Fuck everything, Jen. After all that, who cares?”

Jensen put his fingertips on the computer screen. Misha's cock twitched as the light from the lamp shone off the cum still clinging to the back of his hand. 

“And the worst part is? I still want you,” he said. 

“I'm always gonna want you,” Jensen said. 

Misha's heart banged his ribs. He put his fingertips up against his on the computer screen. It wasn't a touch, but it was a connection. Jensen's eyes were soft and dark as forest moss. 

“You are beautiful and I love you,” Misha said to him.

He blushed. His eyes skittered as though he wanted to look down, but he didn't. He let Misha see how his words hit home.

“You said... you said I amazed you,” Jensen said. He licked his lips. “Well, baby, the fact that you love me is the most amazing thing of all.”


End file.
